“Not necessarily. You forget that your energies were drained by the man who attacked you. And the psychoscope uses up a great deal of vital energy.”
“Don’t you have some machine for putting it back again?”
“Of course.” Niall looked at him with surprise; his comment had been intended as a joke. “The peace machine has an inbuilt Bentz apparatus for inducing an artificial life-field. That should at least restore your electrical potential.”
Niall’s weariness was turning into a headache, accompanied by a feeling of nausea.
“Can it stop me feeling sick?”
“I think so.”
A bright blue light came on behind the frosted glass panel, accompanied by a whining sound that soon passed beyond the range of audibility. The light hurt his eyes, and he closed them tight. Then, as the sound faded, his headache faded with it. At the same time he began to experience a curious inner glow of optimism. He felt an absurd desire to chuckle, and a sensation that made him feel slightly breathless, as if someone had sprayed ice-cold water in his face. He gasped and drew a deep breath as the weariness turned into a pleasure that was close to pain. There was a brimming sensation of vitality, one curious consequence of which was a tickling sensation at the back of his throat; a moment later, this exploded into a sneeze. The blue light immediately vanished, and the serenity gave way to a feeling of normality that was like waking up. He groped in his pocket for his handkerchief, as he blew his nose, there was a flash of pain in the back of his skull.
The old man stood silently, looking at the dial. The silence lasted so long that Niall asked: “Is something wrong?”
“Something is causing your life-field to leak.”
He felt a twinge of alarm. “What does that mean?”
“It means that we are dealing with some unknown factor that I cannot explain.”
Niall watched with curiosity as Steeg picked up the pendant on its broken chain, carried it to the other end of the room, and dropped it into a cylindrical object that might have been a wastepaper basket made of copper-wire mesh.
“What are you doing?”
“Taking a simple precaution. The rupture of your biophysical membrane suggests that you have been in contact with some hostile entity. If this pendant is its transmitter, then an electromagnetic field will render it harmless.”
“So you think it wasn’t a nightmare after all?”
“I cannot judge. Your earlier encounter may have done more damage than you think.”
Even as he was speaking, Niall could feel the euphoria induced by the Bentz apparatus leaking away, like air escaping from a punctured balloon.
“Can the damage be repaired?”
“Certainly. It will heal itself in due course, like a cut or graze. But the process can be accelerated by the Bentz apparatus.”
As he spoke, the blue glow radiated from behind the frosted glass, and the electrical hum rose in pitch until it passed beyond the range of the human ear. This time the glow was less intense; it might have been the pale blue of a winter sky. The sensations that accompanied it were correspondingly less intense; but the headache dissolved slowly, as if blown away by a faint breeze.
As the vitality seeped back into him, like water into parched earth, Niall suddenly knew, beyond any possibility of doubt, that the man in the black robe was a reality, and that his own life was now in danger.
It was already dark when he emerged from the tower, and the temperature had dropped below freezing. In the cold black sky the stars looked like fragments of white ice; a faint glow on the western horizon announced the rising of the moon. The snow had frozen, so that with every footstep he had to crunch through the hard surface. In the great avenue, lights glowed behind windows, and the sound of music drifted on the bitter wind. He had always found it pleasant to observe lighted windows, particularly in upper stories; in the days of slavery, human beings had been confined to basements, and lights had to be extinguished soon after dusk. But now he experienced only a sense of foreboding; it was as if the human beings in the lighted rooms were too vulnerable.
One thing was clear: the killers had time on their side. The tree that had struck Skorbo to the ground had been planted at least a year ago, the symbol of revenge hidden beneath its roots. If necessary they could afford to wait another year to claim their next victim. . . Yet the tree had failed to kill Skorbo, and one of the executioners had died as he tried to redeem the failure; that proved they were not infallible.
In the entrance hall of the palace, the log fire still blazed in its huge grate. His brother Veig was standing in front of it, one arm around a girl as he whispered in her ear. The sound of the closing door made them break apart, and she ran away toward the kitchen — Niall recognized her as the prettiest of the kitchen maids, a girl called Nyra. He felt a twinge of envy — not for his brother’s amorous escapades, but for the simplicity of his life.
Veig said cheerfully: “Had a hard day, brother?”
“A long one.” Niall stretched out his hands toward the blaze.
“Why don’t you take a day off. You are the king, you know.”
Niall accepted the bantering tone without resentment; he understood the difficulties of his brother’s position. Veig had always been fond of his younger brother, as well as highly protective. Now, suddenly, he was merely the king’s elder brother with nothing much to do but hang around the city and flirt with pretty girls. A less amiable man might have been envious and resentful; Veig was far too good-natured for that. But he still felt the need to assert his independence.
Nephtys leaned over the stone balustrade above them. “Are you ready to eat, my lord?”
“Yes, I am.” It had reminded him that he had not eaten since breakfast, and was famished. He asked Veig: “Have you eaten?”
“Yes, but I’ll join you in a glass of wine.”
It had been many months since the brothers had shared a meal together. Niall had been too busy with his duties, while Veig seemed determined to make up for the years during which he had been starved of female company. Even now, as they mounted the stairs behind Nephtys, his eyes studied the shapely legs under the short tunic.
In Niall’s chamber, burning wood crackled in the stove, and the air was full of its smell. Jarita, the maidservant, was already setting out food on the low table.
Nephtys pointed to a long bundle wrapped in sacking, which leaned against the wall inside the door. “A man brought that for you.”
“Do you know his name?”
“Yes. The overseer, Dion.”
Niall laid the bundle on the floor, and unwrapped the sacking. It was an ax, with a haft about four feet long. The shining blade was stained with dried blood. Etched into the blade was the sign with which he was already familiar: the symbol of revenge.
“Did he say where it had been found?”
“He said in the garden, among the undergrowth.”
Veig picked it up and swung it through the air. “It’s beautifully balanced. And as sharp as a razor.”
“Be careful. It’s the ax that killed Skorbo.”
“I guessed that.” Veig tested the blade with his thumb, then snatched his hand away. “My god, it’s sharp!” A drop of blood ran down his thumb.
“Go and wash it, quickly!” Niall was remembering the poisoned knife that had killed Skorbo’s assassin in a matter of seconds. To his horror, Veig licked the cut and said casually: “It’ll be all right.” It was only when, a minute or so later, Veig was still obviously unaffected that he allowed himself to relax.
Niall rewrapped the ax in its sacking, and handed it to Nephtys. “Here, take it away.”
Veig threw himself down on a heap of cushions, and poured two glasses of the pale golden mead; it had been freshly made, and was still sparkling with rising bubbles. He drank down half the glass in one draught, then lay back with a smile of contentment.
“Well, whoever killed Skorbo did a good job.”
Niall shook his head warningly, glancing toward Jarita, who had just entered the room with a dish of roast skylarks. Veig grinned broadly and raised his eyebrows. With his curly black hair and bright blue eyes, he exerted a charm that made it impossible to be annoyed with him. When Jarita had left, he asked: “Don’t you trust her?”
“Of course, but I don’t want to shock her. You forget that most of the people in this city still think of the spiders as their masters.”
“That may be so.” Veig picked up a roast skylark and dipped it in the savory sauce. “But they still hated Skorbo.”